Washing Machine
You’d love me if I were a better man,
wiser, wittier, not so short of cash,
keener to live a life with much more dash
or slightly taller with a proper van.
Like socks, we’re fading in the weekly wash.
Our life’s a long and itchy rash,
and so much less than if we had a passion;
nights thinly slicing love, thick slicing ham.
Seth Crook is transitioning into a seal. His poems have most recently appeared in Southlight, Northwords Now, Stravaig, Firth, The Interpreter’s House, The Nitrogen House, And south of the border in The Projectionist’s Playground, Rialto, Magma, Envoi, Prole.
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